Following weeks, months and years of excuses, I have finally cracked under the pressure of my comrades and crafted a *free* blog. When in goddess’ name possessed me to do such a thing? I cannot say. Alas, I am here nonetheless to share my musings with the rest of my species; to leave a trace other than my ineligible wordy scribbles as proof that I am alive.

A twenty-two year-old New Yorker who serves overpriced lattes to pay the rent on the apartment I cannot enjoy, I am a rising senior at an undergraduate institution obtaining my B.S. in Secondary Social Studies Education with my sights set on pursuing a career in academia. Writing and poetry have been coping mechanisms of mine since I mastered the mechanics of holding a pen, books make the most loyal companions & felines understand me more than most humans do. I am a misfit, a character on the sidelines who is content in being so, and an artist by my own definition.

Lin-Manuel Miranda recently pondered: What is a legacy? It is planting seeds in a garden you never get to see. 

My story – my struggle, my triumphs, the unacceptable number of times I have tripped over my own feet, and the endless agony my Major Depressive Disorder and Complex-PTSD never fails to entice me – will be my legacy. I need to know that somewhere, somehow, someday someone will remember that I was here; that I survived and created my own light in the darkness, and this blog is an attempt to put my soul at peace.

Here, without the morphine, I slice open the wounds I have carefully sealed over the years, and welcome this expansive universe to see itself through my eyes. Then maybe, just maybe, I can remind a fellow human being that the endless exploration and discovering life has to offer is worth breathing just one more day.